


Broadcasting Signs

by Satelesque



Series: Alastor/Alastor Week [4]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Explicit Language, Fans, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Implied Clone Sex, M/M, Magic, Magic Clones, Sex Talk, how do i even tag this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25678780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satelesque/pseuds/Satelesque
Summary: "They’re supposed to be you, so you’d think they know exactly what you want.  Well, turns out ‘exactly what you want’ is pretty boring.  Way too predictable.  Not worth the creep factor if you ask me, but I bet you’re hard to creep.  Probably into something more. . .familiar,and you’ve got more than enough ego to sleep with yourself.  Kinkier than I thought you’d go for, but that’s all the boxes checked, so I figure—““Angel, if you don’t—““If I don’t what?  You’re not denying it.”All entries in this series can be read standalone of each other.
Relationships: Alastor/Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: Alastor/Alastor Week [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1851988
Comments: 7
Kudos: 48





	Broadcasting Signs

**Author's Note:**

> For Day 7: Kinky Day, and yet I didn't write smut. Go figure.

All in all, the Happy Hotel wasn’t a half bad place to stay anymore. It had real food, and Angel didn’t have to duck to keep from walking face-first into cobwebs. It had a bar, even if there was a two drink a day limit. Husk always mixed them strong anyway. The place wasn’t even falling apart anymore. Angel would’ve thought it’d take a whole army of contractors to fix all the broken pillars and banisters, but apparently all it needed was exactly one Radio Demon. It didn’t make the whole skeletal deer motif any less freaky, but Angel had put up with worse.

But there was still goddamn nothing to do. No TV yet—Alastor seemed dead set against retrofitting the place for cable—and radio couldn’t keep Angel’s eyes from wandering. Before long he found himself spending most of his time in the lobby, in turn tapping at his phone and people watching.

It was on one particularly boring night—nothing on his feed but creeps and reposts—that Alastor walked through the doors, and Angel did a double take. There was nothing wrong with the guy—no more than usual anyway. If anything he looked more upbeat than ever. No, it was the bag he was holding that caught Angel’s eye. Nondescript brown paper that he’d have sworn he’d seen before in a very different light. Alastor crossed the lobby in seconds with barely a “Good evening!” to Husk and not so much as a glance in Angel’s direction. He was gone before Angel could say a word, up the stairs and down a hallway, but if that bag was what Angel thought it was, this was going to get interesting.

He’d looked up the Radio Demon the evening he’d joined, but a minute later Angel’s eyes were glazed over staring at maps and dates and casualty figures. It was useless anyway. Not like reading the guy’s encyclopedia entry would do any good. Not like a list of victims said any more about him than a filmography said about Angel. There was no better way to get to know someone than face to face, but it helped to go in armed. This time Angel scrolled past the encyclopedia entries and down to what he should’ve looked for in the first place. The fansites.

* * *

There was a certain trick to talking to the Radio Demon, and it wasn’t on the web. Angel had stumbled onto it himself, and no matter how mercilessly he used it, it never failed to work. Alastor refused to walk away until he’d had the last word. He wouldn’t leave on a loss, even if he had to get his hands dirty to win.

But he couldn’t do that at the Hotel. “No attacking the guests!” Charlie had scolded, but it hadn’t sunk in yet that he’d lost his out. He’d still try to dig his way out and only dig himself in deeper, all huffy dignity and sunk-cost fallacy.

It was worth setting an early alarm just to take advantage. As far as Angel could tell, the guy never slept and was just as energetic anyway, up at the crack of dawn to. . .do whatever people did at the crack of dawn. Not like it mattered. Angel nursed his cappuccino and waited for Alastor to stroll in. He’d only made it a few steps across the lobby before Angel called out to him.

“Had a fun night?”

There was no one else in the room at this hour. No one else Angel might’ve been talking to and no one to see Alastor falter mid-step, almost freezing as he took in Angel’s narrowed eyes and sly smile. The moment was gone as quickly as it came. “I don’t know what you’re trying to imply. I was at the Hotel from dusk ‘til dawn,” Alastor said and walked on, but Angel knew what he’d seen. He hopped off his barstool, joining Alastor in walking he didn’t know where. That wasn’t the point.

“Right, right.  _ ’In the company of yourself’ _ and all.” Angel widened his grin, suggestive as anything he might pull in the studio. To his credit, Alastor knew how to play dumb. He matched it with a bright, lightly condescending smile.

“I truly have no idea what you’re talking about, now if you’ll excuse me—“

“Sure, they’re unmarked,” Angel started, and this time Alastor did freeze in his tracks, halfway through turning away. “But Bernadette’s the only one who still puts her stuff in those brown lunchbags, like some apothecary or something. Couldn’t help but notice you had one yesterday.”

“Bernadette’s sells a variety of occult items,” Alastor said, and that was perfect. He really was off balance if he was admitting it so easily. More importantly, that admission was a massive stepping stone. If he’d denied it outright, the leap in Angel’s logic would’ve been too big. Too much room for plausible deniability. Angel smiled.

“I’ll take your word on it. Never needed much anything else at her store, but unless she’s started selling plushies, nothing fills out a bag like her human dolls. I’ve seen enough of ‘em to recognize it just from that.” Angel set his hands on his hips and gestured vaguely down toward Alastor’s hand, the one that had been holding the bag the night before. Alastor’s eye twitched as he realized the trap he’d stepped into. “Oh, not for me,” Angel went on, waving his arms in front of him. “Except that one time. I’ll try anything once, but I forgot how vanilla I was back then. They’re supposed to be you, so you’d think they know exactly what you want. Well, turns out ‘exactly what you want’ is pretty boring. Way too predictable. Not worth the creep factor if you ask me, but I bet you’re hard to creep. Probably into something more. . . _ familiar, _ and you’ve got more than enough ego to sleep with yourself. Kinkier than I thought you’d go for, but that’s all the boxes checked, so I figure—“

And there it was. That forced-smile indignation, not quite managing to hide the horror underneath. Angel struggled to keep too much of his glee from showing.

“Angel, if you don’t—“

“If I don’t what? You’re not denying it.”

There was a moment when neither of them spoke, just stared at each other with matching narrow-eyed grins, close but completely different. One of these days Angel really had to figure out how Alastor managed to look so pissed and still keep smiling, but before he could, Alastor caught himself. He lowered his shoulders, smoothed the crease between his brows, and brushed some nonexistent dirt off his sleeves.

“Angel Dust. Specimens like you are exactly why I prefer to keep this quiet,” he said, his words heavy with disdain. “And the reason I’m forced to indulge in the first place. In an absence of civilized conversation, who am I to turn to but myself?”

Alastor’s fingertips touched lightly to his chest. His head tipped back a few degrees, just far enough that he could look down on Angel despite the height difference, and wasn’t that a laugh! That was his play? The stuffy nobleman shtick? Alastor pulled it off leagues better than your run-of-the-mill desk jockey thinking they could one-up a prostitute, but that was a game Angel could play any day.

“Yeah, right! Everyone knows the only reason people buy her human dolls is to fight ‘em or fuck ‘em. You’re not the self-loathing sort, and no way in hell would you beat yourself up over getting dropped down here. Pat yourself on the back, more like, and then a bit low—“

“I’m not—!” Alastor started, but Angel snapped his fingers in feigned inspiration.

“Oh! But you’re a chatty guy! I bet you could do both at once—talk  _ and _ fuck! Just go on and on about some old talkies while you go at it!” Alastor still had his mouth open, but nothing came out. Angel smirked and went on. “See, what I want to know is who’s on top. What kind of scenario are we working with here? I figure either way he gets one look at you and wants it immediately, ‘cause who wouldn’t?” Angel gave him a quick up and down as much to admire the view as to see Alastor tense. “But then what? Does he beg you on the spot, or does he play the shy virgin while you show him the ropes, or. . .” Angel’s eyes went wide. “Oh! Or the tentacles maybe? Ha! Or maybe it’s the other way around! Maybe you let him jump you and fuck you into the mattress! You composed types always like it rough, and I bet you anything he’s a biter!”

Alastor’s face was swiftly going red as if trying to catch up to the rest of him, and only then did Angel realize he’d fucked up. Halfway fucked up. Whatever. The point wasn’t just to crack Alastor’s composure, it was to peek through those cracks and dig up something interesting. But he’d gotten distracted, too lost in imagining scenarios to tell if Alastor was blushing because they were right or because they were raunchy.

Either way, the guy seemed stuck in place, frozen to the spot for at least a few more seconds until the gears could click back into place. Before they did Angel backpedaled and tried a new tack.

“Eh, not like it matters,” he said and waved the thought away. “You probably switch anyway. Same person, equal balance, and all. At least that’s the leading theory on your fansites. Probably just a compromise so they don’t start the whole top versus bottom flame wars again. Ha! Compromise in Hell! Who’da thunk?”

“The. . .” Alastor sounded half-surprised to have found his voice again. “The leading theory on my what?”

Angel raised a brow. “Your fansites? On the web? Every celebrity’s got a few.”

Alastor still had a blank look on, but after a moment he huffed and shook his head. There was a trace of his usual composure back again, and Angel could guess why. He was distracting himself, falling back on his befuddlement at all things modern to avoid thinking about the implications. But wouldn’t it be loads more fun if he did?

“They’re like. . .they had tabloids in your day, right? Like that, except anyone can post. Makes it even better if you ask me. You get all sorts of theories running around, and everyone adds their photos too! That’s how I know yesterday wasn’t your first time at ol’ Bernadette’s. And don’t get me started on the photoshops! And the fanfiction!”

This time Angel knew why Alastor was going red. That was fury, plain and simple. That was the light in his eyes sparking brighter as he debated whether it was worth finally learning a thing or two about the internet, if only to track down anyone who’d dared besmirch his name.

And just like that, it was gone. Angel blinked, and in that blink Alastor was back to normal. As normal as he ever got anyway, all sing-song energy, self-assurance, and sadistic glee. “Wha—?” Angel blinked again. Rubbed his eyes. Still gone, and this was how it started, wasn’t it? The massacres? Some demons’ anger wasn’t hot but bitter cold, and Angel knew it well.

“Informative as this all has been, I’m afraid I must be going,” Alastor said. He folded his hands behind his back and turned toward the hall, but Angel grabbed his arm before he could take more than two steps. No, no. No way. No way could he let Alastor go, just like that. Damn it all, he’d just started taking this whole redemption gig seriously, and before he knew it he’d needled a mass murderer into killing his own fans?

“Wait! I—”

Alastor turned around, looked at Angel’s hand around his arm, and raised a brow. “Yes, Angel? Was there anything  _ else _ you wanted?”

Maybe it was an overlord thing, some unspoken qualification like to be one you had to know how to make your words into knives. Maybe Angel really should’ve learned by now not to fuck with them, since those knives always ended up pointed his way. Alastor couldn’t hurt him, but Angel was damn sure the guy’d find all sorts of little ways to make his life miserable. But this time it was. . .it was his fault anyway so it wouldn’t be heroic, not really, but damn it, he was trying! Better him than some poor housewives acting out their fantasies online! Wasn’t self-sacrifice supposed to be a virtue, even if he had to lie his ass off to do it?

“I, uh. I might’ve snapped a shot or two of my own yesterday, while you were passing by and all.” Angel shuffled his foot, hated how unsure it looked, and forced out a laugh. “Posted ‘em too! Man, some of those bitches are nuts! Jealous we live in the same building, even. Hope none of ‘em get the bright idea to join in.” Angel broke off into a chuckle, all too conscious that he was getting off topic. Deflecting again, exactly when he shouldn’t. Alastor still stood there with his brow raised, waiting. “Anyway, you think next time I might get one of you, too? Heh, or you  _ two,  _ together! You and the human you, I mean. Everyone’s pissy since they don’t have a reference, and when I told them I could get one, well. . .” Angel put on his best smirk and waited.

And Alastor laughed. Out of nowhere, light and cheerful, as if he wasn’t pissed at all, and Angel could barely process what he was hearing before the guy opened his mouth. “Why, certainly! Neither of us are strangers to celebrity! Oh, and I suppose you aren’t either.”

Angel didn’t see him move, but all of a sudden it was Alastor’s hand around his arm, dragging him along.

“I take it now would be a fine time, unless you have an appointment. That isn’t why you’re up at the crack of dawn, is it? No? Then what are we waiting for?” A sharp pull tipped Angel forward from where he was digging his heels in and forced him to stumble along. “Or did you think I’d used it last night? I did tell you, didn’t I? The doll is for days when people like you become so intolerable that I absolutely must have another voice to drown you out. I may have had the foresight to get one yesterday, but I didn’t think I’d have to use it this early!”

For a moment there was a flash in Alastor’s eyes and a curl to his smile that had Angel reluctant to follow him into the elevator. He was dragged in anyway, and for the entire ride Alastor didn’t say a word. Just hummed along to the elevator music with a bit too much enthusiasm to be entirely safe. Angel knew this air. In the studio it’d be his cue to shut up. Angel wouldn’t get two words out before Val was snapping out a,  _ “What _ did I tell you about sticking to the script,” or whatever the fuck Angel did this time.

But all the same, the silence was too tense not to break.

“Come to think of it. . .” Angel started, and Alastor didn’t react. He’d let go of Angel’s arm—content maybe that Angel had nowhere to run—crossed his own behind his back, and started rocking forward and back on his heels. Angel cleared his throat and went on. “Come to think of it, I ain’t seen your room anywhere. Almost woulda thought you didn’t have one if Charlie didn’t say. How’s anyone supposed to find you if you don’t even give us a number?”

Not that Angel had tried to find it. Not really. He’d just wandered the halls on enough bored afternoons that he thought he should’ve seen it by now. Alastor didn’t exactly blend in, and somehow Angel thought his door would be the same. Something even redder and blacker and heavier-looking than the hotel’s normal doors, with a tarnished antique knocker in the middle, right above the number plate. Room 666 maybe, or something just as inauspicious.

“You seem to have found me just fine,” Alastor said as they stepped out into the hallway. Every single note in his voice made it clear he wished Angel hadn’t. “And don’t you worry. My room is always exactly where it needs to be.” He stopped on a dime, and Angel nearly walked into him before he noticed the door. It was styled just like the rest of the hotel’s but with one exception. It had no number.

Then it opened, and that was the least of Angel’s concerns. Alastor was saying something, inviting him in probably, but Angel ignored him as he walked across and opened the door to the balcony. The wind blew through his hair, and he could see the usual morning crowd at the Evil Donuts across the way. It was a normal balcony at the edge of the building, but Angel peeked his head back in, and it was impossible. He closed the door, trailed his hand along the wall, and waved his arm where it ended and shreds of wallpaper fluttered in open space. Nothing. Actual open space leading into a stretch of grass, a swamp, and a distant treeline. Right behind him was a room straight out of an antique gallery—complete with four poster bed, letter desk, and armchair—and in front of him was a goddamn bayou. What in the hell?

“Ahem.” Alastor cleared his throat with a sound like microphone feedback, and Angel jumped and turned around. “I believe you were here to see this.”

The doll sat in his hand, looking just as Angel remembered. A roughly stitched rag doll with button eyes, yellow yarn for hair, and a drawn on smile. Apparently the look of it didn’t matter beyond the basics. Magic would take care of the rest, and as Angel watched, Alastor dug his claws into the palm of his hand. Blood dripped down, a small trickle that quickly ebbed to a few drops, then nothing. The doll fell to the ground as Alastor stepped back.

It always took these things a while to get going, starting with a few seconds for the magic to spark and catch. The doll twitched as the stuffing twisted beneath the surface, and from there it started to swell. Cloth turned to skin, yarn to soft dark hair—Alastor’s but without all the points and sharpness that made it Alastor’s—the rough canvas wrap to slacks and a button-up, and the button eyes into wide-open brown ones. The only feature that didn’t change was the smile, still a perfect curve so wide it could have been drawn on. Angel could feel his brows inching up his forehead.

Here in Hell he was a tad plain, but back on Earth the human Alastor would’ve been a real looker. Angel wasn’t surprised. He’d seen a few of the stories last night. He knew pieces of what Alastor had been up to, read about the people he’d lured in, and, yeah, he could believe it. But Angel had only a few seconds to admire the view before the doll was moving, picking up what had to be an ongoing conversation.

“—der the bridge until. . .” He blinked and looked around. “Oh, this is new. And we have a guest! I’m sure you’ve heard more about me than I have of you.”

Angel wasn’t sure if that was meant to be an insult or not with the way Alastor—both of them—was beaming at him. Were beaming at him? He’d barely opened his mouth to introduce himself before Alastor was doing the honors.

“Alastor, this is Angel Dust.” God, these names were a pain in the ass. Angel waited for the reverse introduction, but Alastor didn’t make one, and the doll reacted first.

“Angel Dust, huh? A pleasure, I’m sure.”

The doll held out his hand, closed his eyes, tipped his head, and grinned, and from that grin Angel Dust knew two things. First, Alastor had been a much better actor when he’d been alive. Maybe he’d stopped bothering now that he was in Hell, but there wasn’t a trace of malice or madness or even bloodlust in the doll’s smile. Just simple joy and a shadow that could easily read as the wrong kind of interest.

Second, Angel was right. He was absolutely a biter.

But even as Angel shook his hand, the doll pulled away and turned back to Alastor. “So. Why is he here?”

“According to what he told me in the lobby, Angel here has volunteered to take a photograph. It seems my fans are just  _ dying _ to see you.”

The doll laughed. “To see  _ me? _ What, are you not enough for them?”

“Ha! No, they seem to think I’m not enough for  _ me. _ ”

Wait, what the fuck? Did Alastor just make a joke about masturbating? Sure it was vague enough to get by the censors, but still! And did the doll just chuckle like he’d understood it?

“Oh dear,” he said. “And they don’t realize it’s the opposite?”

“Nope! They don’t understand a thing.”

“Then maybe we should enlighten them.” The doll glanced at Angel before looking back.  _ “They’re _ the ones who weren’t enough.”

“Exactly.” 

Angel’s head felt like it was on a swivel from turning between the two. This time it was definitely an insult, but there was no room to get a word in edgewise. The two were perfectly in sync, words and movements flowing together like those creepy twins who finished each other’s sentences. Hell, they probably even breathed together, and it didn’t help that when they finally turned back to Angel, they did it simultaneously, wearing the exact same grin.

“So, Angel Dust, I can’t help but notice you didn’t bring a camera.” There wasn’t the usual static overlay. That was the fastest way to tell it was the doll who spoke, but once again the demon cut in before Angel could answer.

“No need to concern yourself, dear. Plenty such gadgets have been miniaturized in our time.”

The doll gave a noncommittal hum, looking like he couldn’t care less. Looking like he wasn’t sure whether he was happy to continue his back-and-forth with Alastor or upset that Alastor hadn’t joined him in a tag team versus Angel. And with that, suddenly Angel knew why he was here. This was Alastor’s attempt to win now that killing Angel was against the rules. This was him calling in backup, but what did it matter when that backup shared all his weaknesses?

And they’d finally given Angel a chance to talk. Then talk he would, but he’d start off slow. Test the waters.

“Yep, got my camera right here,” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, and went on as he tapped through to the app. “But what was all that at the start? Something about a bridge?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” the doll chuckled while Alastor explained.

“It’s a holdover from the last time we did this. A doll’s personality is created from memories and intuition.”

“And we remember  _ everything _ we’ve done together.”

Oh that was perfect, all of it. From the ease with which Alastor slipped into ‘we’s, to the arm they’d each wrapped around the other’s shoulders, to the way the doll kept hinting at exactly what Angel was after. “Great, just hold that pose,” Angel said and snapped the picture. Maybe he could put in in a scrapbook.  _ The Weird Shit You Only See in Hell _ or something. They’d let him take his phone to Heaven, right? Maybe censor some of the porn, but wasn’t nudity supposed to be their thing, what with the Garden and all? Whatever. Angel switched to video, hit record, and asked his next question. “So how do you do it? The whole talking back and forth thing?”

This time it was the doll who answered with a wave of his hand. “Oh, it’s just the usual broadcasting gestures. Anyone learns them who goes on air with a co-host. You signal if you’ve run out of talking points.”

“Or you need a breather,” Alastor continued while he took a deep breath.

“Or to clear your throat.” he said as Alastor pretended to cough into his shoulder.

“Or if you have something to say.”

“That’s the most important one.”

“Someone will jump in if you have dead air,”

“But it’s poor practice to never let your co-host get a word in, don’t you think?” The doll grinned at Angel as if he was expecting an answer, but Alastor jumped in instead.

“Oh, absolutely! But it’s easier when you know each other,”

“And we know each other  _ very _ well.”

Goddamn. And Angel thought the normal Alastor was insufferable. He’d meant to do that. The doll absolutely meant to do that. No way could anyone accidentally keep playing that game and put on that smug, lidded-eyed smile, like he was just waiting for Angel to catch up. Or measure up. One or the other, and oh. He didn’t know.

The doll was the one who didn’t know, summoned up without context to find a stranger in his alone time with Alastor. He had to be curious, had to be wondering, had to be making assumptions, and if they really were fucking each other. . .

Angel smirked and let out a sigh. “Look, you can stop with the flirting. I ain’t here to have a threesome. Not unless you ask real nice.” And unless one or both of them was gagged because, God, no way could Angel deal with the back-and-forth while trying to get off.

And see! What was the point of backup if both of them were going to freeze up anyway? If anything, this was worse. Maybe decades in Hell had helped Alastor hone his poker face, but his human didn’t have that experience. Sure, there was that same shock and horror—the same old tight-laced distress at being propositioned—but under that was so much more. Confusion, uncertainty, even a hint of vulnerability. He blinked. His brows furrowed. His eyes flicked back and forth, settling eventually on Alastor.

“You told him we. . . ?” He trailed off before he could say it, then paused, holding eye contact with his demon, and that was too much. The facade flickered, cracked, then shattered outright. All that uncertainty vanished as he leaned against Alastor’s shoulder and burst into peals of laughter.

“You—” Angel started, but Alastor cut him off despite looking like he was about to bust a gut himself.

“I told him no such thing! He  _ guessed. _ According to him, anyone who buys a doll does so either to kill it or canoodle. You can trust him. He’s tried it before.” His words were dripping with sarcasm, and then they were both off. The doll barely held back his laughter just long enough to get out a single question.

“That’s—? That’s all you could think to do?” He looked at Angel, and under his mirth was pure condescension, an unsympathetic pity for someone too boring to hold a proper conversation with himself.

And as if that was exactly the line Alastor was waiting for, he finally turned back to his guest. “Angel. I think it’s—“

“’Bout time I got going, yeah.” He could take a hint, and he wasn’t about to stand around to be the butt of their joke. So what if Alastor got his win and gave his best pal there a good laugh while he was at it. He could be as smug as he wanted, and Angel didn’t have to give a shit. He had his photo and then some and, best of all, an excuse to leave on his terms. “I’ve got shit to do and a forum post to make.” Or not. Not like he actually gave a damn about it now that he knew Alastor wasn’t about to go murder them all.

Angel waved over his shoulder as he walked out into the hall. The last words he heard were, “So is the balcony real, or—” before the door slammed behind him and made him jump. His phone slipped from his hands and tumbled through the air before he caught it in his lower arms. Asshole. Angel turned around to flip off the door, but it was gone. Just a stretch of empty wall.

Angel’s finger hovered over the delete button for the entire trip back to his room. The photo was fine, but the video wasn’t worth keeping. All it was was Alastor and Alastor chatting to each other like perfect goddamn mirrors, then insulting Angel over a misunderstanding they’d deliberately set up. Assholes, the both of them. Double the asshole. Asshole squared. That was supposed to be more, right? The thought was there and gone as Angel fell back on his bed. Fat Nuggets perked his head up and went back to sleep like any sane person would this early in the morning, but Angel was still buzzed from the coffee. No sleep, then, and nothing to do until at least mid-afternoon. Angel’s hand wandered from the delete key and hit play instead. And again. And again.

There was something hypnotic about the video, like one of those championship ping-pong matches—too fast and too coordinated to look away from. After a few watches, Angel was even starting to keep up. He could see the cues, or at least some of them. Small flicks of the hand and curls of their fingers that Angel hadn’t managed to spot at the time. And then there were the other signs Angel hadn’t seen. The ones that weren’t intentional.

“And we know each other  _ very _ well,” the doll said, then paused for a second before catching his breath, like he was savoring the words. The two leaned into each other’s arms around their shoulders, the opposite of Alastor’s usual distaste at being touched. Their exchanges weren’t just perfectly timed, they were comfortable. Everything about it was comfortable, like two people who’d seen each other at their worst and decided it didn’t matter. Fuck, no wonder the doll hadn’t worked nearly as well for Angel. No wonder people bought the things just to kill them. It was the rare soul who made it down to Hell with no regrets.

And then there was that ending. The doll was a good actor, no denying it, but which part was the act? The uncertainty at the start? That’s what they wanted Angel to think—that he’d been trying not to laugh the whole time. One look at Alastor and he couldn’t hold back, but what if it was the opposite? What if the look was a question, and with some invisible cue Alastor had told him no? They’d played it all off, turned it into one big joke, and let Angel look the fool.

Well he wasn’t, and he had the recording to prove it. They hadn’t admitted to anything, but it’d take an idiot to think they would. They’d never say it straight, but in all the video’s runtime and all the time before, neither Alastor had denied a thing.


End file.
